In the dark cool recesses under the logs grows the shelf fungus, velvety and soft like white kid gloves, and the swollen body of a brown earth cricket moves along the shelves, preoccupied and withdrawn in its pregnancy, waiting for the signal of its time. And there is no spiritual squealing on each other.īy the summer’s end the woodpile is a mass of bindweed vines with their small white flowers, of morning-glories whose delicate seed-pods are shaped like winged buds, and the enormous grape leaves are insect-riddled and some shadowy as lace. W as it chosen to grow of all the lot, and the rest reluctantly drop away? Oh never mind us, it doesn’t matter we’ll just wither up here in the grass while you grow big and strong - or did one secretly devour the rest, spines and all, on some moonlit night, and emerge The One next morning? The world of animal and insect clicks along with such business-like cruelty that the word actually has no meaning any more in reference to anything but man, and the vegetables doubtless share this glorious innocence, this immunity from the tribunal god. But no matter how closely I watched I could not detect that mystic moment when the cluster of cucumber pods, silver and sticky as a bunch of burs, became one cucumber. In the early morning these cucumber leaves are stiff and spread out in the dew like lily pads, but as the sun moves slowly over the woodpile, they collapse weakly into soft mushy rags, and the path of the sun is marked by their fainting shapes. The various bees of the world, from the great mumbling giants to the small brown velvet bees like winged moles, move over the cucumber vines, which flower and fruit at the same time. Their mindless, loving spirals circle the Queen Anne’s lace, and the handles of the broken wheelbarrow carry their luminous green fruits, which dangle like spiny hedgehogs under the wide umbrella leaves. By early autumn the grape and honeysuckle are covered by the weightless sprawling vines of the wild cucumber, whose lace-like spires of flowers have changed to prickly clusters of fruit, and whose twisting hands, delicate as watch springs, have grabbed on to every perpendicular stalk they can wrap themselves about.
#WANDERING WILLOWS COCOA BEANS FULL#
In the comparatively small space these logs and crumbling timber cover, an infinite, minute world goes on, almost soundless, often invisible, but continuous, shifting, full of faint scents and changing lights. Under the beautiful shadow of the wild cherry trees and maple it has lain for years and is now overgrown with grapevines and honeysuckle, and has sheltered chipmunks and the itinerant skunks that wandered through on summer nights. AT the eastern corner of our ancient house is an old woodpile.
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